


Shameful

by General_Button



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Micropenis, Small penises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 17:24:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1613231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Button/pseuds/General_Button
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a shameful secret that John thinks really isn't shameful at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shameful

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kenopsia (indie)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/indie/gifts).



> Surprise, Katie! It isn't beta'd, so fuck all mistakes. 
> 
> Edit: That tag...lmao

A relationship with Sherlock Holmes, in any sense of the word, was bound to have its peculiarities and intensities. As a detective—or rather, in John’s case, the one following the detective—their relationship was very much intense; there was usually shouting and/or harsh whispering behind the backs of esteemed criminals, and on occasion there was the almost dying that put a damper on things. That never lasted too long, though. Sherlock thrived off of those situations, after all.

Which was why, with some curiosity and some trepidation, John wondered why their relationship of the romantic sort hadn’t, well, gone anywhere.

It wasn’t that Sherlock wasn’t attentive, although he often forgot John existed when he was in the middle of something, or when Sherlock forgot John had a job and called him three times on his phone before John had to remind him. No; that was just Sherlock being, well, Sherlock. What he was referring to was the more sexual nature of their relationship.

And it wasn’t that Sherlock wasn’t attracted to him. While Sherlock liked to claim he was blind, John had more intuition than the detective gave him credit for. He could tell, after a filthy kiss or a really good case, that Sherlock was raring for a go. John never saw physical evidence on Sherlock’s part, while John and his somewhat annoyingly sizable cock, were always obvious. Sherlock was _very_ good at hiding what he was feeling by covering it up with blasts of outward emotion.

John had got many a handjob, and one memorable blowjob from Sherlock, but as soon as John extended his hand for other efforts, Sherlock was suddenly very busy or otherwise occupied. This was unusual. It was especially unusual for Sherlock, a man who didn’t mind making a spreadsheet on his masturbatory habits. And this was _before_ they were dating.

Somehow the word felt inadequate. _Dating_ felt like it lacked all that encompassed John and Sherlock’s relationship. Dating belonged with one of John’s old girlfriends who had a sparkling personality and a devilish streak. Dating referred to a boyfriend that had lasted a month two years ago, before he became almost strictly Sherlock-sexual and tried to fight it off by proclaiming his falsified heterosexuality.

But it didn’t feel a bit like dating when Sherlock ran away from him. John wasn’t an idiot; he didn’t _push_ him, but he did find it a little frustrating that Sherlock wouldn’t let him give back all that he had done for him. There was just so much; couldn’t he show Sherlock how much he appreciated what he’d done?

Admittedly, touching another’s cock hardly seemed like the way one should say ‘you save my life in more ways than one,’ but it was something he wanted to give to Sherlock.

* * *

John snapped the newspaper closed purposefully when Sherlock strolled into the room, munching absentmindedly on something that was brown and…were those green flecks? He really didn’t want to know, but the doctor in him was making it impossible to ignore.

“What is that?” he asked. Sherlock glanced down at what he was eating and shrugged. “Found it in the fridge. Seemed edible.”

“I am not kissing you with that mouth.” John chuckled and set the paper down so he could stand up and stalk towards his partner. Maybe Sherlock needed something less subtle. “But I would love to suck on another part of your anatomy.” That was tacky. John could feel his face burning, but it would be worth the look on Sherlock’s face—

—of horror. That was definitely a look of fear John saw flashing in those eyes. He stepped back, unsure of the boundaries in that moment, and instead hovered over the table.

“OK. Right. Sherlock,” he began.

“John,” Sherlock replied, his expression now smoothed of all wrinkles.

“Is there something—“ he began, hoping they could breach the subject that had lay between them for months. Far too long, in John’s opinion. However, he was interrupted when Sherlock made a face.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” he declared unsteadily. Whatever it was he had eaten had done terrible things to him, conveniently, and John didn’t have time to worry about their _relationship_ when Sherlock ran and vomited something green into the sink. Where an experiment already lay, naturally. John rubbed his back while Sherlock made anguished noises; mostly because his precious petri dish was ruined. Whatever nutrients Sherlock had hoped to gain from eating for once in his life were down the drain.

“Come on, baby,” John cooed, smiling when Sherlock shot him a glare. “Let’s get you into bed. Nasty case of… whatever that was, poisoning, hm?”

* * *

After that, with everything that went on in their daily lives, it was difficult for John to try and squeeze in The Talk; and upon further investigation, he concluded that Sherlock would do anything in his power to avoid said talk, that much was clear. Something, or quite possibly some _one_ (which brought with it a new load of terrifying thoughts) had made him fear these very intimate acts and it was clearly something he dreaded talking about. While John wanted to leave him to it, it was never good to let these rifts lie. He needed to get him to talk about it somehow.

* * *

The perfect opportunity finally presented itself when John and Sherlock were just done with a case. This one had been particularly exciting, and Sherlock was high with adrenaline; enough that even though he had started avoiding sexual advances, he kissed John right on the stairwell. John responded in kind, laughing against his plush lips.

“Come on, let’s not give Mrs. Hudson an eyeful.” He turned Sherlock around and marched them up the stairs. God, he hoped they could work it out. Once inside he plastered his body against Sherlock’s, pulling his head down by the back of his neck so he could kiss him more thoroughly. Sherlock made a tiny sound in the back of his throat that John called his meter. The depth and the length of it usually indicated how turned on Sherlock was, and whether or not he might be amenable for sex.

John kissed his lips multiple times before moving to his jaw, trailing his lips along the soft skin. He wanted to focus on getting Sherlock relaxed so he might bring up the issue that lied between them. Underhanded, but necessary, he thought. If that meant pressing his hard-on against Sherlock’s thigh and sucking on his neck, then so be it.

Sherlock moaned into John’s ear, sounding more shattered than usual. His body was strung tight, a quivering strong that John longed to pluck. He rubbed his thumb over his hipbone soothingly, staying away from the part of Sherlock he knew he didn’t want John touching.

“You’re gorgeous, you know that, right?” John turned his head and swallowed Sherlock’s noise of dissent, grinding against his thigh. “So bloody gorgeous. Do you have any idea what I want to do to you?”

He pulled back, just enough that he could get a look at Sherlock’s face. His cheeks were red and his lips swollen; when his eyes finally focused on John’s face, they still seemed rather glazed. “I have some idea,” Sherlock rumbled, cupping John’s jaw before pulling him back into a blistering kiss.

John moaned, reaching behind Sherlock to grab a handful of his arse. Sherlock ground against him briefly before he stopped, his body freezing like it was encased in ice. John pretended he hadn’t noticed and continued to push him towards the bedroom. Never he mind that he couldn’t even feel Sherlock’s erection.  

“You know what I want?” he slurred against Sherlock’s cheek, working at his own belt. Sherlock kissed his neck and trailed warm lips to his ear.

“My mouth,” Sherlock suggested, reaching between them to cup John’s impressive girth. John groaned.

“God, yes, your mouth. I love it when you suck my cock.” He buried his fingers through Sherlock’s curls suggestively, yanking the hair back until Sherlock grunted appreciatively. “I think someone wants to see you.” John grinned, tilting his hips into Sherlock’s palm.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but nonetheless unzipped John’s trousers, and then carefully tugging his pants over his cock. He looked captivated, as he always did. John didn’t want to toot his own horn; rather, it was that Sherlock really seemed to enjoy doing this to John. It was really unfair that he couldn’t do anything for Sherlock.

“Hey,” he said, pinching Sherlock’s ear to get his attention. He was nearly salivating over John’s cock, and he suspected some of it was for show. “Hey, look at me.” Now was as good a time as ever. He cupped Sherlock’s cheeks when he felt him try to look away, as if sensing what was about to happen.

“What?”

“What’s wrong, Sherlock?” John brushed his thumb over sharp cheekbones, feeling the tension creep into his boyfriend’s body.

“What.” His voice was hard.

“I was hoping that we could…well, this is a horrible time, probably, but I don’t know how else to bring it up! You’re clever, Sherlock.” He ran his fingers through his hair, aiming for soothing gentleness. “You know what I’m talking about. What’s—hey, don’t do that.”

Sherlock had yanked his head away and lunged for the door.

“Come on, Sherlock. Don’t run away from me. Can’t we talk about this?”

Sherlock looked frightened and more than a little angry. “What’s there to talk about?” he snapped, brushing past John to go into the living room. He threw himself on the sofa, his back facing away from the wall.

“Cor, I don’t know,” John said, more harshly than intended. “The fact that you won’t let me touch you past a few dirty kisses? Or the fact that you avoid the question every time I try and bring it up.” He didn’t want to be _that guy_ , but he wanted… “Look, I’ve tried not to push you.” John sat on the edge of the sofa, brushing his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “If you’re not comfortable with the turns in our relationship, please tell me, but I have a feeling it’s not about that. You seem pretty excited until- well.” He paued, thinking through his next words. It was make it or break it with Sherlock. “Am I on the right track?”

There was a begrudging silence, and then John added, “please?” in hopes of getting an answer.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and John relaxed marginally. This was progress, at least.

“Is there anything I should know?” _Fuck_ but this was frightening. What if someone had done something horrible to Sherlock? It wasn’t that difficult to imagine. He was enigmatic and beautiful as much as he was annoying and exasperating, like a wild animal that would never quite be tame. “Anything at all, you can tell me.” He leaned down and kissed Sherlock’s ear, earning the slightest smile before it was wiped off Sherlock’s face.

“I have a—“ Sherlock snapped his mouth shut, seemingly surprised he had even spoken, before cautiously continuing. “ _Thing_.”

“You have a…thing,” John parroted slowly. Sherlock didn’t answer, so he went back to soothing his ego. “Is this…thing we’re talking about what I think it is? You’re beautiful and handsome, Sherlock. Gorgeous. I know I say the same things because my vocabulary is as plebian as I am, but I mean it. Anything that you think is wrong with you cannot be something I would hate.”

“Even if I was horribly disfigured?” Sherlock shot back, sounding harsh again. His hands fluttered by his chest, as if he wanted to say more. John realized he might be feeling trapped, and moved to the other end, away from his head.

“Even then. You’ve seen my shoulder; that’s not pretty.”

“That is _different_.”

John considered the theory that Sherlock might have some disfiguration, but quickly threw the idea once he thought about it. Sherlock had thrown it at him far too fast for it to be true. He like to flutter around the answer until John pried it from his very tightly wound words. Clearly it was something to do with his genitals— or something along those lines.

“Well no matter what way you think something is wrong with you, I’ll still love it. And you. Even if you had some sort of- of third eye, I think we could manage.”

Sherlock snorted at that, but the sharp crease of his shoulders drooped somewhat. “It may as well be,” he muttered, almost completely inaudible.

“What was that? Are you telling me you have a little peeper down there?” John teased, trying to lighten the mood. He went to give Sherlock a comforting kiss, calling it safe, but he was stopped when Sherlock nodded.

“Yes.”

“You have a…wait, you’re not—“

“It’s as you say. Little.”

Oh. _Oh._

This time John did come to him, leaning down in order to kiss his worries away. “Is that what this is? All this time, you’ve been worried I’ll judge you over the size of your dick?” He giggled, feeling elated, but Sherlock stopped him with a look.

“It’s not funny,” he snapped, cheeks growing very warm. “It’s humiliating! You don’t understand.”

“Sherlock,” John begged, trying to him so they would be face-to-face. Sherlock peered at him, disgruntled. “Okay, so it’s not funny. People feel serious about that sort of thing. It’s just…do you really think I wouldn’t like you anymore?”

“It’s not that!” Sherlock exploded, standing up to move away from John. John let him have his space. “It’s- it’s more than that. I don’t think that you’ll somehow abandon me, but it’s not something I’m proud of. It never goes well with other people.”

John tried not to think about ‘other people’ and how much he’d like to throttle them for making Sherlock feel like this. “Help me understand,” he urged. “I’m a doctor, Sherlock. I’ve seen it all. Nothing could throw me off in any way.”

Sherlock just looked at him with expression that made John want to reach over and kiss him. He looked simultaneously broken and hopeful, as if he already knew how John would react. “Two inches.”

“What?”

“Two. Inches.”

“So you’re…”

“When erect, yes.” Sherlock’s face was completely enflamed, his cheeks splashes with hideous blotches of color that were completely endearing. John stood, approached him, and pulled him into a very stern kiss. He didn’t surface until Sherlock was making those sweet sounds into his mouth, hands straying towards his hips, as if he wanted to tug John closer but knew it would yield certain consequences.

“No wonder I could never feel your erection. I wondered if I was just somehow inadequate.” Sherlock adapted a look of mild constipation, stepping back.

“John…“

“Okay, humour is not a good approach. Sorry.” John touched Sherlock’s lower lip with his thumb. “Let me take you to bed then, okay? I want to do this right.”

After a moment, Sherlock nodded. The two of them made their way into the bedroom, Sherlock hovering an unnecessary three inches behind John. He took it in stride, pulling Sherlock flush against him as soon as they had reached the bedroom.

“Feel this?” John asked, pressing his erection against Sherlock’s thigh. In order to reinstate its existence, he’d had to think about Sherlock in that underwear he’d bought a week ago—the really tight red ones—and rubbed himself subtly, but Sherlock didn’t seem to have noticed if the surprise on his face was genuine.

John received a mute nod.

“This is how I feel about you. Well, not entirely, but you know what I mean. You are my boyfriend, my lover, my partner; whatever you want to call me. Even if you have the smallest penis in the world, I would still love it.” He reached carefully between them and pressed his palm to the space between Sherlock’s legs.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, but if you’d like, I can take you to bed. I’ll spread you out over that entirely too high threadcount sheets and do whatever I can to please you,” John’s voice turned quiet and low, which was usually Sherlock’s gimmick. Now it was his turn to see Sherlock shiver with the force of his words. “I’ll make you melt like butter. I want to pull you apart piece by piece, until your limbs drop from pleasure

In lieu of answer, Sherlock kissed him. John moaned appreciatively and started the second phase of his master plan, and pushed Sherlock onto the bed, fisting his shirt impatiently. “Get this off. I’ve been eager to see your tits for ages.”

Sherlock let out a shrill laugh and acquiesced, throwing his shirt over his head.

“You’re gorgeous when you laugh.”

Sherlock smiled and scooted back to give John room, clearly relieved to see humour was still a part of all this. John ignored the fact that his hands shook as he worked on his buttons and stopped him by kissing him. He made it filthy, licking his way deeply into Sherlock’s mouth. One hand spread across his chest, pausing to thumb a nipple, and the other traveled to his thigh and kneaded the spot until Sherlock spread his legs a little, allowing him further entry.

John pressed his thumb in circles over his inner thigh now, peppering kisses along Sherlock’s neck. Fingers raked along John’s back in retaliation, and Sherlock moaned into his ear. It was really difficult to concentrate with Sherlock’s warm breath huffing against his neck, but John was intent on making this good for him. He sucked on the hard part of his shoulder while his fingers worked at Sherlock’s belt, pulling it free within seconds.

At this point Sherlock started to panic again, his hands fluttering around John’s like a frantic butterfly. He periodically laid them over John’s fingers in order to stop him, and then pulled them away when he deemed his advances acceptable. Once the buttons were undone, John patted his thigh and ordered him to lift his bum, which he did semi-reluctantly. “You can always tell me to stop,” John assured him, pausing for effect. Sherlock jerked his head forward in a nod.

“I know. I’m just nervous. I’m thirty-some years old; not thirteen. Go on.” His eyes were soft, though, and John knew (hoped) that he would stop if they needed to.

He pulled down Sherlock’s trousers, and soon pants were to follow. John didn’t purposefully look until Sherlock was completely exposed, and he made certain to keep his expression as open as possible. Sherlock wouldn’t take well to him hiding any of his reaction.

And really, despite all worries, it wasn’t nearly as bad as John had expected. Very small—barely two inches, probably—and swallowed by his bollocks, Sherlock’s penis was actually quite cute; not that he would be saying that to his face anytime soon. After waiting for Sherlock’s nod of approval, John cradled his balls and rubbed his thumb underneath the tiny head. It looked like a regular penis, just much smaller.

He reacted regularly as well. Under John’s careful ministration his penis grew, fattening against his palm and reaching its full height. Sherlock twitched, his breath coming out short, and his cock followed the movement, already rewarding him with a bead of precome. “Perfect,” John said before he could help it. Sherlock’s cheeks colored and he looked away.

Undeterred, John continued his exploration, settling beside Sherlock. The fingers of his free hand settled in his hair and John gently tugged on them, earning a sharp gasp as Sherlock squirmed. “Hey,” John whispered, tasting his throat. His pulse was beating at a rabbit’s pace. “You’re fine. Bloody gorgeous all over, you git. I can’t believe you hid this from me.” He did his best to show his appreciation, alternating between stroking Sherlock’s cock (gently) and pulling his hair as he kissed the base of his throat.

Barely a few minutes into the ordeal and Sherlock was already a mess. He sobbed whenever John rubbed his thumb over the head, and whimpered when he massaged the vein of the underside. “Oh God,” he whispered into John’s neck. “I can’t- please. John.”

Sherlock gave him nothing else to go on, and John didn’t ask. Moving intuitively, John released Sherlock’s hair and moved down to his crotch, until he was face to face with Sherlock’s penis. Above him Sherlock was breathing hard, his entire body a single live wire.

John steadied him by placing his palms on his thighs, and when he hovered over his cock, mouth agape, Sherlock made a beautiful, broken noise. John thought he would be okay if he never lived to hear another sound.

When John took Sherlock into his mouth, he felt fingers grip his shoulder. Sherlock panted like he’d run a marathon and John, his mouth barely full, laved his tongue over Sherlock’s cock. He toyed with his bollocks, rolling the soft skin over his fingers gently; if what he knew about micropenises were true, Sherlock’s refractory period would be seriously premature. For some reason, this knowledge only turned John on further. He moaned around Sherlock’s prick, suckled on the head, and was rewarded with a strangled groan and one hand fisting his hair.

“Oh, _fuck_ , John, I’m not going to last,” Sherlock tried to warn, but John wasn’t having any of it. He swallowed Sherlock into his mouth until nose touched his pubic hair, while his tongue was pressed hard against the sensitive vein.

He wanted to save this image on his mental photo album for all eternity. Sherlock’s eyes were wide and glassy. And his mouth, Christ. The look of real, pure pleasure on his face was going to fuel John’s fantasies for months.

Quite suddenly John found his hair being pulled in Sherlock’s grip as he trembled with effort of oncoming orgasm. His feet scrambled across the bed, as if to fend off the inevitable, and John heard him swear in multiple languages. He doubled his efforts, ignoring Sherlock’s shocked cry when he carefully scraped his fingers along Sherlock’s inner thigh.

Then, just like that, Sherlock’s entire body tensed and John felt him grow harder in his mouth. Liquid spurted in quick successions, much more than he expected, actually. It didn’t taste very good, but the noise he heard Sherlock make was worth the every bitter drop.

When he pulled up, he was already fisting his own cock, laying his head against Sherlock’s thigh so he could focus on the mental image of what had just happened. “Fuck,” he hissed, jerking himself off with no finesse. “You have no idea what you looked like— Jesus Christ, Sherlock. God I love you.” He thrust into his hand for several seconds until he came with a sharp gasp, not at all concerned that he made a mess of their sheets. It would keep.

“ _Shit_ ,” he panted, raising his head to look at Sherlock. “I hope that was enough Sherlock, I really do. Because I do not want to have you hiding again. You were so…” He swallowed Sherlock’s laugh with a kiss, expecting the way Sherlock sputtered at his own taste. “My gorgeous, brilliant partner. What did I do to deserve you?”

Sherlock just stared at him incomprehensively. “I should ask you the same thing.” The relief and sheer happiness in Sherlock’s eyes was worth any amount of waiting. The fact that it had hurt him for so long, and that he finally managed to share—at least for now—was a major breakthrough. “John I…‘thank you’ hardly seems appropriate, but I know you’ve been frustrated—“

“Shhh,” John whispered, pressing a sweet kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “You don’t need to say anything. I wanted to do this, and I’m sorry if I pushed you. I’m just very glad you enjoyed yourself and I hope that in the future you won’t feel that you have to hide.” He glanced at Sherlock’s prick, which had receded to an even smaller length, and touched the head. “This is a part of you that I love just as much as the rest. I want you to know that.” Sherlock looked a little doubtful, but John had plenty of time to prove that part of him wrong.

“That’s easy for you to say,” Sherlock said eventually. “You’re big enough for the both of us.”

“Well we’re quite a pair, aren’t we?” John nuzzled Sherlock’s neck, who huffed a short laugh and placed his hand over John’s hip.

“Yes, we are.”

 


End file.
